Waking His Emotions
by caitlinamylaura
Summary: Dr. John Watson's post-traumatic nightmares are crippling. Sherlock Holmes is discovering emotions which could change his cold-hearted life. Things are changing in their not so quiet lives. Will they be pushed together or burst apart at the seams? Future S/J.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This is my first fanfiction, so please be kind. I'm hoping to make this into a multi-chap fic sooner or later. I'm also relatively new to the Sherlock fandom, so if you find any glaring mistakes don't be afraid to point them out. I've never published before, reviews would be lovely to show if I'm on the right track. Enjoy :)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Sherlock. *sobs*

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Waking up trembling in the throes of a nightmare was not unusual for John Watson, however it was something he would never become accustomed to. He had been thrown from sleep by his over-active mind every night for months now, since his return from service. On this particular morning he awoke as he crashed to the floor, his mind telling him to duck for cover and reach for the gun that no longer rested at his bedside. The call of his name from down the flight of stairs where his flat-mate was, well, doing whatever Sherlock did at night left his still sleep-clouded mind confused as to whether he was needed to help casualties of the explosion that was a figment of his imagination or if the other man in the flat was simply concerned for him. It was at times like these that John found the often-insufferable nature of the younger man fading away, mellowing enough for him to be able to catch a glimpse of emotion in those usually cold grey eyes. It was still dark out, placing it at around 4am in his mind. The slender, angular figure of Sherlock Holmes appeared in his doorway, silhouetted by the dim light coming from the lower level of the flat. Slowly emerging from his confused state, John climbed unsteadily to his feet, the residual dull aches in his shoulder and leg flaring at the mere thought of his past. The ex-army doctor wondered idly how many weeks, months or years it would take for him to be able to wake up normally, slowly and without fear or pain. His time in Afghanistan had imprinted itself in his mind; breaking those habits would take time.

He crossed the room, hoping to be able to slip past Sherlock and make himself tea as he usually did before being accosted by his worried flat-mate, and in turn his own confusion towards the man.

"Kettle's calling," he mumbled, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes in an attempt to clear the unwelcome thoughts of warfare from his consciousness. Sherlock reached across the door in an attempt to stop him from walking out of the room, however John pushed passed and headed for the kitchen, pleading silently for a few minutes to compose himself. Recently he had begun to notice small changes in Sherlock's manner, his usual egotistical, oblivious ways and pointed comments and stares giving way to concern, lingering touches and soft glances. This new, unfamiliar side of the man who was well known for his irritability and hostility was indeed welcomed by John, however slightly alarming it may be.

By the time the kettle boiled, Sherlock had assumed a seat at the kitchen table, intently watching the doctor in the mundane process of tea making. Steady surgeon's hands placed two full cups on the table, without so much as a glance in his direction. He watched John take a seat, and grimace in pain at the action.

"Shoulder or Leg?" Sherlock immediately prompted.

"Both."

Sherlock sighed, uneasy with the discomfort of the sole person he would consider calling a friend. Friendship was an element of life he had deemed unnecessary and unwanted before meeting John Watson, a waste of time, which would only cloud his judgment and leave open many avenues for possible blackmail. He was unsure what was different about Watson, yet he was more comfortable having the other man at his table than he was willing to admit.

The pair sat in silence for a while, neither willing to speak. Sherlock felt his unease rising and glanced at the doctor, a look of restlessness on his face, which left John wondering how many Nicotine patches were concealed under the arm of the dressing gown covering his pale body.

"As you may be aware, friendship does not exactly come easily to me," Sherlock began in order to break the ice. This was a conversation he desperately needed to have in order to straighten out his cognitive process. He could not allow his work and mental state to be compromised by emotions caused by John Watson. This was new to him, his anti-social past provided no real background for him to rely on when it come to personal conversations.

"I have little experience in what constitutes such a thing, but I am lead to believe that that is what is developing between us. The feelings that go along with this are also new to me, as I am unused to noticing emotion at all. I cannot help but worry for your wellbeing during your re-adjustment to civilian life. If there is anything I am able to do to assist you, please alert me."

John sat, taking in the statement. From any other person it would seem impersonal and awkward, however he knew that coming from Sherlock, it was an unprecedented declaration that required courage. He smiled slightly, searching the eyes of the detective for the depth of his mentioned emotions.

"Thanks for your concern, Sherlock, however I don't think there's anything you can do. I'll get by, it's just going to take some time. As for our …situation," he covered Sherlock's long, slender hand with his smaller one the best he could,

"I'm honored to call you my friend. Know that I'm here for you if you need me, what you're feeling is normal. Don't let it overwhelm you. Now, I'm not trying to chicken out of this conversation but I really I need to go back to sleep, I'll see you in the morning."

He got up from his seat with one last meaningful look to Sherlock in hope to convey his message. He began to walk towards the stairs. Just as he reached the doorway, a pair of slender arms wrapped around his shoulders in a rather awkward hug.

"This is okay, isn't it?" asked Sherlock, his voice muffled slightly as he lay his head on the shorter man's.

"Just fine," John replied, after a lengthy pause, "However you can let go now. Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

John turned and headed for his room, climbing back into the bed, rather disappointed to find that it had long gone cold. The sun had started rising at this point, and he watched the sky begin to change through it's display of colours, muted somewhat by the London lights.

_'Just friends…' _ He thought, drifting into a dreamless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Hello again! I wasn't planning on updating this quite so soon but the thoughts were in my mind and I didn't want to keep them from you. I'm unsure whether this story will eventually have a regular updating schedule or not, because I don't know how frequently or well I'll be able to write this once school goes back next week. I also don't know how long this story will be, but I have at least another 2 chapters in mind. Please let me know what you think :)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Sherlock. If I did, it'd be a little different...

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Sherlock stood in the doorway to John's room, debating whether or not to wake him. He must have rolled out of bed during the nightmare he must have had, however he seemed to have remained asleep this time when landing on the hard surface. He appeared to have shifted to a calmer mental state, his features soft and breathing even as he slept. Over the past months the traumatic nightmares had been occurring less frequently, though it still pained Sherlock when they did occur. His friend's unrest continually upset the younger man, in a way he still did not understand. It was truly unprecedented that Sherlock had not gained the knowledge he desired in this period of time. John Watson had changed Sherlock's opinions on companionship, whether or not this was a good thing remained undetermined in his usually sharp mind. The detective crossed the room as quietly as he was able to, pulling the duvet over the figure sleeping at his feet. The urge to gently touch the face of the sleeping man was overwhelming, and Sherlock quickly returned to his former place by the door in order to control himself. He yawned involuntarily, the three sleepless nights he had just had due to a particularly tough case, which he had solved in the early hours of the morning, were beginning to take their toll on him. Sunlight streamed in the window, muted by the typical autumn cloud cover that had not completely broken in weeks. He found himself staring out the window, watching the city come to life as the early morning risers begun to appear in the streets. For once Sherlock decided that testing his deduction skills on people in the street provided him little entertainment, and he found his attention drawn back to the sleeping man. He wondered whether his newfound emotions were common amongst friends. Surely feelings strong enough to even register in his well-guarded mind would be crossing one of the lines John frequently reminded him were 'socially unacceptable'. Sherlock attempted to identify the variables that drew him to this individual, who seemed no different at first glance to any person he would usually pass by. There was his army and medical training, though he was not the first doctor or soldier Sherlock had met. His looks were not unpleasant. In fact, he appeared rather…

"Sherlock! What are you doing?!" _Shit. Busted._

"Oh, Umm, I was just, erm, looking for the skull," he replied immediately in a feeble attempt to cover his blatant staring.

" I don't have your skull." John sighed. Of all the ways to wake up, lying on the floor being stared at by a well-known sociopath was not one of the best.

"Really, Sherlock, what is it? I happen to know Mrs. Hudson hid your skull three days ago. I also know that you are well aware of this fact. The only reason you haven't approached her is because you're afraid that she'll crush it. Is there something you need?" John really shouldn't have been surprised at the unusual presence of his flat-mate; this was Sherlock in question, after all.

"Oh, nothing. I'll, umm, just be off then." Sherlock turned and quickly retreated down the stairs. John had yet to see him look so uncomfortable in the months they had known each other. What was really going on in that curly head of his?

John appeared in the kitchen some time later, after showering and dressing, taking his time to clear his head of the rather inappropriate thoughts that had begun to form in relation to a particular consultant detective. He wasn't sure when thinking of his flat-mate in such a manner had become appropriate in his mind, and he was also unsure if he was completely comfortable with the revelation. Sherlock was leant over the kitchen bench, thoroughly engrossed in whatever experiment he was currently conducting. John cleared his throat, causing him to startle and thump his head on the overhead cupboard with great force.

"John! Oh good lord, did you have to do that?!" Sherlock cried, his head in his hands. John crossed the kitchen, mumbling apologies as he prised Sherlock's hands away in order to examine his head. He run his fingers over the now tender area, glancing into the other man's eyes for signs of immediate distress. Sherlock, who appeared to be fine, although he would have bruising in the coming days, held his gaze. Suddenly, he felt the moment change. All that mattered was John, the outside world ceased to exist in that moment. They inched closer together, his hands moving to lie at John's back, his eyes instinctively closing. The feel of his friend's breath on his lips sent all of Sherlock's underlying doubt flying when John froze, coming to his senses immediately, seemingly out of nowhere. He pushed Sherlock aside, grabbed his coat and left the flat, slamming the door as he went. He needed air. Lots and lots of air.

Sherlock remained leaning against the kitchen bench, his mind kicking into overdrive. He moved to sit on the floor where he had previously been standing, reprimanding himself for getting carried away. This was John Watson, his only friend, he could not just go and almost kiss him whenever he pleased, possible head injury or not. He grabbed his phone from his pocket, immediately texting John.

**Message from Sherlock Holmes**

**7:43 AM**

I'm sorry. Please come back. –SH

He stared at nothing in particular, waiting for a reply.

**Message from John Watson**

**7:47 AM**

Need space. Gone walking. Be back later. –JW

Sherlock sighed, getting up and wandering to the couch. He would sit and attempt to process his thoughts until John came home. Maybe he could slow his whirling thoughts enough for a short nap. If only John were here, he always slept more soundly if he was. Despite his doubts, pure exhaustion overtook him sooner rather than later and he fell into a sleep only experienced by those too tired to function normally. There was only so long one could stay awake without sleep.

Instead of dreaming of cases as he expected, however, John Watson filled his unconscious thoughts.


End file.
